


Principles of Restraint (Tension & Compression)

by Anonymous



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Gags, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 22:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Curt wants Owen to use his words. Owen just wants Curt.





	Principles of Restraint (Tension & Compression)

**Author's Note:**

> This filth brought to you by the encouragement of Jess and also with minor input from Percy. Y'all are godawful enablers, I hope you're happy.

Owen braced his arms on Curt's shoulders and ground his hips against Curt's thigh, desperate for more friction, any friction. Curt simply watched, amusement clear on his face, and shifted his leg downwards, away, denying Owen even the small amount of stimulation he'd had left.

“Needy, aren’t we, Agent Carvour? You know if you want more you have to ask,” Curt said.

Owen just glared at him, breath coming fast through his nose, gag pressing his tongue down in his mouth, the strap biting into his cheeks and the back of his head. He couldn't ask, and Curt knew it.

In lieu of humiliating himself more by trying to speak, Owen pulled his hand off of Curt's shoulder and reached downwards, determined to earn his pleasure by pleasing Curt. He was so focused on his goal that he was caught off-guard when Curt slapped his hand away, almost falling off Curt's lap where he was seated.

"Hands to yourself, Agent Carvour, there's a good boy."

Owen couldn't restrain a whine at the phrase— the compliment, the title, he wasn't sure which one, maybe it was neither and just the situation but he needed Curt to touch him and he needed it _now._

Curt raised his hand and Owen tensed, preparing for a slap. (He didn't _think_ he'd done anything wrong— but Curt could be mercurial, in scenes like this. Owen thought it was to keep him off-balance, focused on the moment.)

Instead of slapping him, Curt patted his cheek. Once, twice. Condescending. He traced the outline of Owen's lips with his index finger, swiping it around, under the gag and then drawing it back, eyes tracing the line of saliva that arced downwards from his finger to Owen's lower lip. 

"My good boy, all pretty and excited for me. Can't even control yourself."

Curt wiped his finger on Owen's cheek and Owen gasped at the contact. A phantom of Curt's touch remained on his skin, the sensation heightened by the chill of his own spit evaporating.

Curt grasped his chin, forcing Owen to look straight at him. His expression was blank, eyes clinical, assessing. "Restraint, Agent Carvour. Self-control. These qualities are vital in an operative. I know you want to show me how much you want this but right now, _I_ want _you_ to show me that you can keep ahold of yourself. No matter what I do. Even if..."

He trailed off. Owen kept his eyes locked with Curt's, didn't dare draw breath.

Curt's face softened, not quite into a smile, but closer to one than the emotionless mask he'd had as he was speaking. He released Owen's chin, and Owen barely had time to mourn the loss of contact before two hands began pinching and twisting at his nipples. Owen arched forwards, pressing blindly into the contact, before remembering Curt's instructions and attempting to return to his former position.

"I do something like this. Can you be good for me?"

Owen nodded vigorously, an almost unconscious reaction. He could, he thought. He could be good for Curt, do as he was told, he would, he wanted to, but there was the stroke of a tongue on his chest and warm breath and cool air, and now Curt was biting at his neck, and he could barely draw breath around his moaning, let alone hold still. Curt would be disappointed, he knew, but the tension in his body demanded release, and he rutted on Curt's thigh breathlessly, rolling his shoulders forward in time with his hips, hoping— praying— needing every shred of contact, every inch of movement Curt would allow him.

"You say yes, but your body betrays you," Curt said, tone mild and evaluative. He made no move to stop Owen's movements, and his hands continued their work, sending pangs of pleasure from Owen's nipples to the roiling tension that continued to grow in the pit of his stomach. "I had expected more from you, Agent Carvour, but I suppose even the best spies have their weak points. What do you think?"

Owen could do nothing but whine. Curt hadn't stopped, and despite his best efforts he himself couldn't stop the shameful jerk and drag of his hips along Curt's thigh. He leaned his forehead against Curt's shoulder, hoping his capitulation would appease Curt, encourage him to take pity, show mercy, provide Owen with the stimulation he'd been denied for so long—

"Now hold still, Agent, or things will get very unpleasant for you very fast."

Curt withdrew his hands from Owen's chest and Owen bucked forward, chasing the warmth and _feeling_ of Curt. Curt's hands were there, were gone, were cupped around the back of his head.

Owen was panting, eyes damp, taking solace in the safety of Curt's neck. Curt stroked his fingers up and down, over the strap of the gag, ruffling Owen's hair and tracing patterns on his neck. He remained tense, body taut with unfulfilled desire, but he stilled. His breathing steadied, slowed, kept time with the pace of Curt's caresses.

He was a fool for letting himself be distracted.

Curt grasped at his hair and tugged backwards, unbalancing Owen and toppling him to the floor, where he remained in a stunned heap.

Owen looked up to see Curt standing over him. He squinted his eyes against the sudden brightness of the ceiling, desperately trying to understand what had just happened, _why_ this was happening.

Curt spoke. "God, what a view. Special Agent Owen Carvour, a fucking mess right at my feet, completely at my mercy. You have anything to say for yourself?"

Of course not, he _couldn't, you dick,_ and if he had to take one more second of this pantomime he was going to fucking _explode--_

"No? A shame. I've heard things about that mouth of yours, you know. But you're such a pretty, pitiful thing I think I'll show a little bit of mercy. Show me how much you want me and maybe— _maybe—_ I'll let you use your pretty little mouth on me later."

Owen heard the words, but he couldn't understand. Disoriented from the rapid change of position, confused as to what Curt wanted from him, he blinked rapidly. Were those tears? Didn't matter. What was Curt saying?

"Go on, Agent Carvour, what are you waiting for? Give me a show."

_Oh._ A show? That, he could do. 

Owen scrambled to a proper kneeling position, knees spread wantonly, sitting back over his heels, head tipped back in what he hoped was an attractive show. Desire and desperation pulsed through his body.

He brought his right hand to his cock, encircling and stroking himself, moaning at the intensity of the sensation, so much _more_ than Curt had let him have before. With his other he retraced the places Curt had marked on him; the fresh bruising on his collarbone, the tiny aching crescents on his chest where Curt had dug his nails in, his stiffened nipples. He thrust into his hand. _So good. Finally, finally._ His breath came in halts and stutters, he was so close, he was ready, he'd been ready, he wanted—

"Stop."

The almost-gentle impact of a shoe on his chest knocked him backwards, and he threw his hands down to the side to catch himself. He froze, splayed out and vulnerable on the cold floor, weak and helpless below the looming silhouette of Curt Mega.

"You don't get to come. Not yet."

Owen whined without thinking, tears welling up in his eyes and cascading down his cheeks. He tried to beg, but the words wouldn't form around the gag filling his mouth. _Please, please let me come, please, I need to, please, please, please._ Instead, a high-pitched keening sound filled the space between them.

His arms were trembling with the effort of holding himself up, so he let go and dropped himself onto the floor. The lights were too much so he closed his eyes, letting the sensations of the room wash over him. The cool tile beneath his flushed body. Air entering his lungs in heaving, shuddering sobs. The ever-lingering scent of Curt's cologne. The taste of the rubbery ball in his mouth, the small amount of give to it. Tears running down the side of his face. The sound of footsteps. The rustle of fabric, growing closer.

"Oh, you poor thing," Curt said, voice too close for him to be standing. Down on one knee, then. Didn't matter; he wasn't touching Owen, was hardly even real.

"Open your eyes," Curt said, in a tone that sounded like a suggestion, but Owen knew it was a command. He obeyed.

"Good boy," Curt said. He was standing, again. He was meters away from Owen. When had that happened? "Come here."

Owen rolled onto his side, sobs trailing off as he focused on performing Curt's commands. He couldn't stand, couldn't imagine standing, so he crawled on all fours to the ground at Curt's feet.

"Kneel for me. Can you do that?"

Owen unfolded his body, head rising over shoulders over hips over knees, muscles straining with the effort. An exhausting feat, almost too much for his livewire body.

Curt's hand was in his hair again. Owen gazed upward, like a flower tilting its head to catch the sun, and Curt's visage dipped towards him in return.

"Good boy. You're such a good boy. Perfect for me."

Owen leaned his head back further, pressing against Curt's hand. His fingers caressed Owen, dragging through the strands of his hair.

He looked up at Curt and whined again before nudging his head forward, hoping to communicate his intention. Foreplay was well and good, but there was only so long one could wait for the main attraction.

"You want me? You want my cock?"

Owen nodded and whined again.

"Good boy, talking to me, letting me know what you want. Here, let's get that out of your way," Curt said, reaching to undo the buckle underneath Owen's ear.

He gently tugged the ball out of Owen's mouth before tossing it off to the side. It landed with a clatter, and Owen giggled.

"Enough with that," Curt said, although he was smiling too. "Come on, help me out of these pants."

With Curt's hands around the back of his head steadying him, Owen made quick work of Curt's belt, trousers, and underwear. He pressed a kiss to the reddened tip of Curt's dick before leaning forward and taking it into his mouth.

"Yes, Agent Carvour, just like that. Good boy, good boy."

Owen reached up and clutched at Curt's hips as he leaned in further, hollowing his cheeks, trying to fit as much of Curt's length into his mouth as he could. Curt continued to babble his stream of praise, and Owen hummed his appreciation around Curt's cock, then laughed when Curt reacted by thrusting even further into his mouth.

Curt's rambling approval devolved into groans, and his grip in Owen's hair tightened. He wrenched Owen's head forward, then back, fucking his mouth with no regard for the pace Owen had set. Owen closed his eyes and surrendered to the sensation of being used, trying not to gag or cough when Curt hit the back of his throat, knowing it wouldn't matter even if he did.

His rhythm faltered, stuttered, nails digging into Owen's scalp, and that was all the warning Owen got before Curt came, warmth filling his mouth and spilling down his throat, down his chin. He swallowed what he could and felt Curt tense and relax as his orgasm subsided.

Owen pulled his mouth off of Curt and leaned his forehead into the juncture of Curt's hip and thigh, savoring the contact as he caught his breath.

"God, what did I do to deserve you?" Curt finally said.

"Not enough, I'm sure," Owen retorted, but his fond tone contradicted his words.

"I can think of at least one thing I could do to make it up to you." Curt winked at Owen, who groaned.

"That was awful. Get down here, you twit."

Curt dropped to his knees in front of Owen, putting the two of them level with each other. He took hold of Owen's cock and jerked him in slow, steady motions.

"Still so hard? I must be doing something right, then."

Owen thrust his hips forward, dissatisfied with Curt's leisurely pace. "Shut up, you—" he paused, gasped, "—tease, and—" another gasp, "get me off."

"Whatever you say, Agent Carvour," Curt said, and sped up his movements.

"God, yes, Curt, please," Owen said, and then buried his mouth in Curt's shoulder, the words becoming unintelligible vibrations in Curt's collarbone.

He came with a shudder, spilling all over the two of them, and continued to rock back and forth for several moments, riding out the aftershocks like a boat after a series of heavy waves.

"Good?" Curt asked, when Owen finally raised his head again.

"Amazing," Owen said.

"We should probably... clean up."

"Not just yet, I think. I want to spend some time lying down, the floor's as good a place as any."

Curt opened his mouth, probably to protest. Before he could say anything, Owen grabbed Curt by the shoulders and shoved, the two of them collapsing into a pile of sweaty limbs, arms entangled and legs pressed against each other.

Curt rolled his eyes but grinned indulgently. "Who am I to deny the great Agent Owen Carvour anything?"

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill! I thrive on feedback. I eat it for dinner. Please feed me, I'm so hungry.
> 
> (Haha just kidding, just kidding. Unless...?)


End file.
